Pride and Sensibility
by pure-class-princess
Summary: Two Jane Austen novels for title 'cos it's more relevant. Increasing length of chapters. Modern AU of Downton, SybilxBranson atm may become crossover ,too. Alternate title for chapter 3 could be 'Chasing Pavements' if you like. Please R&R. -pureclass
1. Midnight Train to Georgia

**Here it is; new story! (my) First modern AU of Downton Abbey. ATM it's Sybil/Branson-centric but that may change. Oh, and Julian Fellowes/ITV owns Downton Abbey, Jessica Brown Findlay and Allen Leech own themselves, North Ridings own Ripon, Haworth and Keighley, USA owns Atlanta, Georgia but I do own my brilliant little OCs.**

**Atlanta is the capital of the State of Georgia, 'Lennon' is referring to John Lennon Airport, Liverpool (subsequently owned by Merseyside) and 'White Rose country' is referring to Yorkshire.**

**Yes, the title of this chapter is really cheesy :P**

**-pureclass**

A baggy jumper with 'Georgia' scrawled across the front shimmied into the compartment. The girl cocooned within had no use for it inside the heated carriage and so, at the first opportunity, dragged the too-big item off over head and plonked it down on the seat, apparently unaware of the occupant. No, definitely unaware. The girl gasped a little in shock as she noticed the figure holding a newspaper down so he could look back.

"No," he stated, imagining her question, "It's not taken." He confirmed.

"Sorry. I didn't notice you."

"That's the idea. Not seen, not heard." They chuckled. "So, is it your name?"

"Huh?"

"Georgia. It says so on your hoodie."

"Oh, no," she giggled at the misunderstanding, "I just stayed with friends in Atlanta for the millionth time, I've had this hoodie since it was literally bigger than me. My mum nearly murdered me when I said that a flight to Lennon was cheaper, even with the train fare back to Yorkshire."

"Ah. That explains it." He smiled and completely folded his paper up, emphasising the drop onto the table.

"Yeh, so what's the purpose of your journey into White Rose country?" whereas she had a quite strong, if still eloquent, Yorkshire accent his was an even stronger Irish brogue.

"Work." He said simply, folding one leg over the other. With the extra leg room she straightened the single leg and leaned back more into the chair, folding the originally discarded jumper to a pillow under her head.

"Wake me up when we get to Ripon, or before if you have to leave, please?"

"No worries, that's where I'm getting off." He smiled the same grin again and unfolded his paper as she closed her eyes and drifted off. Wasn't she forward?


	2. Good Morning Starshine

**Apologies, my updates won't always be this frequent! Surprising, the trains do end up chugging around as there's always something on the rails, 'Sleeping Beauty' and Disney World belongs to Disney, New York, Manhattan, Queens and Coney Island (as well as Brooklyn etc.) belong to USA, Kate Middleton owns herself and Greater Manchester owns the Trafford Centre.**

**It picks up a bit, longer chapter.**

**-pureclass**

The train chugged noisily into the station – _electric trains shouldn't do that?_ he questioned none other than himself. Great, he had had apprenticeships as mechanic and chauffeur but couldn't – Damnit! What was her name? How was he going to wake her up without knowing her name? Eegit.

"Georgia, Georgia!" he muttered, shaking her a bit. She roused after the twelfth call of not-her-name and corrected him straight away.

"I'm not called Georgia." She reminded him.

"Yeh, but since I don't know your name it was either the one piece of information I _do_ know about you or 'Sleeping Beauty'."

She swatted him away and then uttered "Sybil."

"Huh?"

"Sybil, my name is Sybil."

He took her proffered hand and declared "Tom."

Unravelling the hoodie, which, subsequent to her falling asleep, had fallen from behind her head and onto her backpack, she pulled it back on over her head then pushed her arms through the sleeves, writhing beneath the thick woollen garment. She pulled the bag onto her shoulders, sliding her now available arms through the loose straps, and stepped gracefully – was that possible – through the sliding door held open by her new acquaintance.

"Is it nice in America?" he asked, quite gentlemanly offering his hand to help her off the train.

"I suppose," she answered, "My mum's from there, so we visit Manhattan often; and the rest of New York, really. $6 from Queens to Coney Island." She laughed at her own joke. "Plus all the times we went to Disney World when we were younger. Me and my sisters, that is. Though by the time I was old enough to really enjoy it, they were both old enough to not care less. Well, Edith did, I think, but chose to act like Mary."

"So those are your sisters? Edith and Mary?"

"A-Hu. Do you have any?"

"Yep. Three, Rose, Sinead and Jess. And four brothers."

"Wow! How does your mother cope?"

"Gets rid of us all, last time I checked. That's why I've been banished to Yorkshire!" He replied mockingly, without even the slightest hint of solemn.

"Well, if she did, you certainly seem happy about it." She smiled a devilish smile.

"How could I not be? Within an hour of landing I get to know a pretty girl, who looks amazing in everything and – slap me if I'm wrong – doesn't seem like she could give one."

"I presume you're talking about me? Or did you invite Kate Middleton into the compartment whilst I was snoring?"

"It was an angelic snore." He smiled back. "Hey," he spoke again and stopped them when the coach park was in sight, "You never told me what you're doing in Yorkshire."

"Oh, yeh, I'm going to my family's ancient castle – which just so happens to be plonked in the middle of nowhere. But, hey, I'm not due there until tomorrow, want me to show you all the cool places round here?"

"You're not going to drag me round the Trafford Centre, are you?" he enquired.

"Don't tell me you wouldn't enjoy it." The statement came with an implied winking smiley.

"Are you?"

"If you insist then no, we'll stay round here. We could visit Haworth."

"Brontë country, I like your style."


	3. Wuthering Heights

**Again, apologies, my updates won't always be this frequent! All the Brontë's (and brother Branwell) own themselves, West Ridings own Bradford, Halifax and Dewsbury, Co. Down and Co. Dublin own themselves also, Cambridgeshire owns Cambridge, Trinity Mirror owns the **_**Daily Mirror**_** (which, yes, is apparently available in Ireland), Google is owned by just about everyone nowadays – excluding me, 'Oui' is primarily owned by the French, the Costa Concordia is owned by Carnival Corporation (not that they have much use for it now), Rugby League is British, the Six Nations is owned by those six countries that I won't bother listing, Jeremy Irvine owns himself, Mr Fantastic is owned by Marvel, and FINALLY Tadhg and Ciarán are traditional Irish names. All the chapter titles are song titles – this one refers to Kate Bush's song, not Emily Brontë's novel. Almost called Discovering the Cobbles.**

**It picks up a bit more, even longer chapter (and not just because of the excessive credits that I've decided I will no longer include.)**

**-pureclass**

"Here."

"What?"

"It's a chippy!" The old lanes of Haworth you could have mistaken for having not changed since Charlotte, Anne and Emily had walked the streets. "So you like literature?"

"Yeh, but Edith likes it more. I kinda prefer the history."

"Same, and Politics."

"Really? Me too!" the pair just smiled at each other, mouths stuffed with thick, crispy homemade chips. "Hmm," Sybil swallowed her mouthful, "Wanna go on the steam train?"

Tom swallowed his own mouthful, almost dribbling some of the thick homemade meat gravy he had splattered all over his chips, and nodded a yes.

Haworth to Keighley with tickets that also looked like they'd just hopped out of the Georgian period. Had aeroplanes been invented when these had? The journey wasn't all too long but they found it necessary to discuss shared opinions on the sisters' family.

"You know, Patrick Brontë was from County Down. Named after the Saint. Born on St. Patrick's day as well."

"Yeh, his only son Branwell born near Bradford got addicted to heroin and died in Haworth. Strange, besides the eldest two they were all born in Thornton but resided in Haworth."

"Hey, his name's like mine."

"Patrick Branwell?"

"Tom Branson. Irishman – but from County Dublin." Laughing at the coincidence, he then added, "Hey, weren't the first daughters born further South than Bradford, near Halifax and Dewsbury."

"Yeh, why?"

"Why'd'cha think they moved North?"

"Because they wanted to? You could ask why'd my family move South – we have a perfectly ginormous house up here but live near Cambridge."

"Hmm, 'spose so. What's it called, anyway? 'Enter surname here House' like the rest of them?"

"No, but there is a Crawley House nearby that we own, too."

"Crawley? Sybil Crawley?" he couldn't believe his ears. Was this charming, intelligent, beautiful girl curled up next to him in her massive hoodie drinking Starbucks out of a paper cup really _the_ Sybil Crawley?

"Yeh." She blushed, "You seemed nice; and not like someone who read tabloids or gossip magazines or whatever."

He knew what she meant by 'whatever', and no, he wasn't like that. "No, but my sister reads all those magazines – and occasionally the _Mirror_. I think she has a shrine dedicated to you in her wardrobe."

"Which one?"

"Rose. She thinks you're – and I quote – 'Far too nice to be famous'. Or, I think she means, that you're a little less superficial than most, well, celebrities." This made her grin.

"Do you think that?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Whether you enjoyed today."

"_Enjoyed_?" she repeated, "I'm still enjoying it – I've never felt so free."

"This coming from Family Rebel Number One."

"Hey, at least it's not Public Enemy Number One!"

"You know, last I heard from Rose she screamed down the phone lines to give my eardrums a personal kick-in about how she'd just searched you – yet again – on Google and apparently you're three months pregnant."

"Really? I should really start copying Mary and search myself on the internet a bit more then get Murray to stop anything bad circulating."

"You have someone who can do that?"

"Oui, since the injunction."

"Oh yeh, your sister was being stalked by paparazzi after her fall, right."

"No, that just got Mary and her stupid horse super injunctions – Edith and I got one not too long back when Patrick went missing on that ship that overturned."

"Patrick Brontë, or Branwell?" he joked

"Crawley! One of my distant cousins, geez. Presumed dead on the Costa Concordia."

"Oh yeh, now I remember. Isn't he like heir or something?"

"Now it goes to some lawyer who's an even further related cousin."

"That why you're going to this big house of yours?"

"Of my _dad's_." She corrected, "And yes. He died young, without a will and stuff. This solicitor who will inherit the estate is conveniently going to oversee everything legal. I don't know why I have to go, I won't get anything. Papa wanted Mary to marry Patrick but Edith really fancied him – I hadn't seen him since I was, like, 12."

"Doing anything interesting tomorrow?"

"Edith will probably insist on watching the rugby, so I have brutes chasing around after an awkwardly-shape ball to look forward to."

"Hey, I played rugby in high school – and Uni!"

"Well, feel free to come along and explain the game to me while we watch."

"Really? You're asking me to go to yours to explain the Ireland/Wales match tomorrow?" So very forward. Clearly, once she found someone she could trust, she wouldn't let them go.

"Sure. Heck, it'd save me from mama throwing a load of boring-cum-eligible boyfriends my way. She tried to set me up with Jeremy Irvine last month."

"Ouch, being practically forced to meet some handsome movie star must be torture." He commented sarcastically.

"Oh, it is, Mr Fantastic." Irony. She used it well, he thought.

"Is that my new nickname? Because, honestly, 'Paddy's little brother' or even just 'Tom' will do fine."

"You have a brother called Patrick?"

"And Liam and Tadhg and Ciarán."

"Wait, Rose, Sinead, Jess, Patrick, Liam, Tiger, Kieran."

"Yep – but mind how you spell the last two."

"How do you spell them?" she asked exasperatedly, knowledgeable that he wanted her to ask.

"Glad you asked," he began, a little too enthusiastically, "Tadhg is spelt T, A, D, H, G and Ciarán is spelt C, I, A, R, accented A, N."

"And I thought my name confused people."


	4. Enchanted

**Much longer. They might end up like this. No credits but you can probably guess what I don't own (like Irn Bru and Jo Frost). Yeh, school is coming back so probably won't be writing this often.**

**-pureclass**

He woke early the next day and followed the directions she'd given him – he was apparently not to trust his namesake satellite navigation device – and arrived in what appeared like the middle of nowhere. Confident that she would, in fact, come meet him like she promised he lounged beneath an oak just off the roadside. It had been a blizzard yesterday and the snow still lay near a foot deep in a perfect circle around the tree with only a slight covering beneath the canopy.

She arrived – by bike – only a few minutes into his daydream. He broke from his reverie to her picturesque face, framed like a painting by the still landscape behind. Drat, how he wished he'd had his phone out to take a picture.

"I brought an offering of lasagne." He proudly declared, holding out the large casserole dish that he had perfectly balanced on his palm.

"Not exactly traditionally Irish." She giggled and steadied it then took it from him completely, allowing him to get back to the Irn-Bru in his other hand.

"No," he answered honestly, "But it is from my ma's recipe book. Stayed up near all night making that. I mean, from what I hear, you don't just walk into some rich bloke's house virtually unannounced and disturbing on a family affair empty-handed. Then dictate rugby." He now put on his most emphasised, proper, posh accent and stated, "It simply isn't done."

This made her laugh no end, to the point of almost dropping his precious lasagne. He smirked smugly and took a swig from his bottle of pop.

"Come on. They won't approve of my being late." In hysterics she very nearly hopped back onto her bike, casserole dish in tow. "Actually," she asked, "Can I catch a ride with you?" His hire car was really a small truck, a beat up Chevy with a two-seat cab.

"Sure, but you'll have to squish on the drivers' seat with me. I know it's not quite legal but the lasagne has shot-gun priority and it's either that or in the back."

She looked unnerved at the idea of squatting in the tarpaulin covered pen attached to the back of the vehicle.

"It's okay, think I'll live on the wild side just this once. Can my bike take the back, though?"

"Yep, just slide it under the mat. There shouldn't be any snow under there."

Slowing at the gravel drive he decided it would be no use so turned round and parked up where he was absolutely sure there wouldn't be any yellow lines. They walked together the rest of the way, leaving his discarded breakfast containers in the cab and lugging both the generous 'offering' and her bike the rest of the way. Once the 'castle' appeared on the horizon he nearly dropped the still-hot dinner as his jaw fell.

"You never mentioned that your family owned Buckingham Bloody Palace!"

"They don't – it's called Downton Abbey and it's nowhere near the size of Buckingham."

"Nowhere near? Its frickin' huge!"

"Bigger than your holiday home in the country?"

"To say that any holiday home in the country I own is either some B&B I've checked into more than a couple times or that beach loo at Blackpool where I missed the can, 'bigger' is an understatement."

"Ugh, too much detail. Though I guess animals _do_ mark their territory. Oh, speaking of detail, what's our story?"

"Huh?"

"D'ya really expect us to turn up in a few minutes and for me to explain that I met you on a train yesterday and invited you back to watch TV? No, we have to invent something."

"True. How about, wait – do you go to Uni?" Drat, he'd graduated and she seemed so much younger, so much more innocent that maybe she was still in college.

"Yes, I'm graduating this year I hope." Phew.

"Well, er," he was flustered at the stupid question, how young could he think she was, shouldn't he know that she'd nearly graduated, "How about you say that we have a mutual friend wherever. It's probably not a lie, anyway." Did she not want to deceive her parents, just stretch the truth a little – or not even that at all.

"Yeh, but then we'd need a friend readily available to vouch for us and we really don't have time to correlate our phonebooks at the eleventh hour." They'd started walking again.

"Then, er, say we met on a train but not yesterday, a while back."

"And what? We met on a train a while back and now he's here. You don't know my family – they'll drill us both separately like a police interrogation. You'll be hung, drawn and quartered before you know it."

"Nice euphemism."

"Thanks. Oh, I got it, say that you're my boyfriend." He nearly choked.

"What!" What? How many millions of men in the world would love to be in his position right now and he'd choked out the word that sounded like he was appalled at the idea. Damn straight she was forward, but why shouldn't she be? At least she would realise now – if she hadn't already – that he wasn't trying to get close to her because of her money or fame or whatever. Apologise. "Sorry, er, yeh. Okay."

"Good," she replied, taking his available hand in hers, "Because we're at the door now." Oh. Yeah. He glanced up, how could he not have realised they'd arrived at the massive building and had climbed ten steps up to the at least 20 foot tall solid wood door. He swallowed. The whole thing looked taller than the Houses of Parliament, and he should know.

"It's bloody huge." He repeated, managing to stutter nothing but the familiar words, breath taken at the enormous residence. And, as it just so happens, the butler opened the door at the exact moment he did. Not disgruntled, the older man's perfect emotionless composure remained as he held the door open.

"Miss Sybil, Guest." He welcomed them.

"His name's Tom, Carson. Tom Branson."

"Welcome, Mr Branson, to Downton Abbey." Yep, definitely felt like a film.

"Cheers." He said, in a completely different world and barely registering what his senses picked up. He himself stood expressionless, mouth aghast, staring at his surroundings. He slowly did a 360°-take. This point, he thought, would be where they had a camera above him, zooming out, to show him and then widening the shot to show everything he was seeing. But, as it happened, there were no cameras. Story of his life.

"May I show you and your – friend – through to the library?" Carson asked hesitantly, what should he refer to this guest as?

"Library?" Tom woke. Yes, he'd just graduated and worked for the Leader of the Opposition but damn he loved a good library. And this one promised to be huge. Carson appeared to have mistaken his gasp for shock of disbelief at someone having a personal library as opposed to enthusiasm to explore it, but Sybil appeared to know different by the grimace she pulled. Was it right that she could still look so beautiful with the most horrible expression etched onto her perfectly-sculpted features?

"Yes, Mr Branson, right this way." He led them through to the large hall. Is it also possible for a single room in a house to appear that it stretches far further than the confines that said house appears to have from the outside, even when that house seems larger than any other building one has ever seen before anyway? Apparently so. There were no mirrors on the far wall or depth-illusion wallpaper, or even bookshelf wallpaper to make it appear that family owned more First Editions than they already did. Had he been staring? No, no-one was looking at him strangely. So far, so good. Damn. She hadn't primed him on her family.

Let her talk. There were three of them in the room. Another older man, but not as old as the butler, sitting behind a desk. Then there was a woman, a little younger than him, in a long, flowing red dress with her hair strapped to the top of her head in a way that looked painful. Finally, there was a young man, about his age, with blonde hair that darkened slightly near the roots to a strawberry blonde and on the back of his neck to a golden shade. He was in a formal dinner jacket, suit and bow tie. Tom glanced down and noticed, he was in jeans – smart jeans – and a fitted T-shirt with a man's cardigan on top. His coat had been discarded in the hallway, he presumed. Plus the loafers. Tom was pleased with himself, he must have wanted to make an impression or, knowing him, he'd have turned up looking like a hobo. In truth he did, but only in comparison to these people. Did they really need to dress like that for watching rugby? Or would they change?

He now noticed what Sybil was wearing; a low-cut denim skirt and basketball-striped knee socks pulled slightly up her thigh, green Converse without the ankle so they looked like pumps and a girly blouse. Her dark curls had been plaited twice, into pigtails. They were coming undone slightly and whilst one hung over her shoulder, the other was in front and the frayed end was being fidgeted with absentmindedly between her index and middle fingers. The splayed corner edge neared her perfectly rosy lips, accented by peach lip gloss that glittered as it was hit by the overhead light. She was the picture of beauty. What had he done to deserve such a wonderful friend; girlfriend even, even if just for the day.

"Ah, Sybil, and – who's your friend?" The man behind the desk looked up from his papers, who still wrote with a quill and inkpot?

"Papa, mama, this is Tom," she gestured to him, "my boyfriend." He nearly died. How could he have fallen in love with his friend? _Friend_. Just his friend, he couldn't ruin their friendship. It's just hormones or something, he told himself. Don't be selfish, it'll spoil your friendship for her. He couldn't let that happen. He could never upset her. Drat! He really had fallen in love with her, hadn't he? What she did next didn't help.

She leant up and kissed him on the cheek as if to emphasise further that yes, this new man she'd just introduced was in fact the one who had joined them in the room for the first time ever a minute ago. He blushed and looked down. "Hi." Eegit.

"And, Tom, this is my mother and father." She first waved her arm to the elegant woman on the lounger and then to the man who had just risen from the desk. They both smiled but then her mother interjected.

"I'm Cora. And boyfriend, you say? Why haven't we been introduced earlier?" Though the question appeared like it was intended for him, he knew that it was indeed Sybil who was expected to answer.

"Because," she began, very professionally, "We're trying to keep it quiet. It's bad enough nearly every moment of my life is documented by one paper or another, I really shouldn't drag Tom through all that." She clearly had strong opinions on this subject.

"How thoughtful of you." Her father added, walking round another settee, "Robert." He offered his hand. Tom took it but looked over his own shoulder. The young man seated on the settee opposite seemed to have been overlooked. Sybil followed his line of sight.

"Tom, this is Matthew." She walked behind her mother who had moved to stand next to Tom and used both arms to gesture to the figure that now rose.

"It's good to meet you. I'm afraid I'm quite new to this, too." Well, it certainly didn't sound like it.

The two settees were facing each other and were walled on one side by the longer, which itself was placed about four or five feet in front of the desk, facing the door. There was a mahogany coffee table just inside where the other 'wall' of the square would be and a 'T' shape was formed where a glass coffee table adorned with several magazine was turned lengthways of the settees and placed within. Tom also noticed that a selection of newspapers were bundled untouched with the day's mail on Robert's desk.

"Please," the man offered, "Take a seat." This was it. This was the grilling. He was dead.

Sybil sat next to him on the settee that was left unoccupied as the original tenants of the room returned to their previous seats. She leant in close to his ear and whispered, "You look nervous. Don't be. It's a lucky escape my grandma and sisters aren't here." Was that meant to comfort him? Then, for use of something to do, she kissed him below the earlobe. That certainly did. Was she aware of the effect she was having on him?

Two hours passed and they left the library. Tom had gained permission from Mr Crawley to borrow books if he wished, then him and Matthew went to discuss some legal jargon he didn't really care for. Cora went to, as Sybil put it, probably start an argument with Isobel – Matthew's mother. Apparently, he should try never to find himself in a room with either both her sisters or her mother, grandmother and Isobel. He'd be safer as a gladiator, according to her.

Yes, _either_ of her sisters was good company most of the time but together they were deadly. They had some set-in-stone feud that she'd never understand. This meant that he certainly wouldn't.

The lasagne he had brought was served for lunch in one of their small living rooms as there was only a small gathering. It was set up on a table at the back with some garlic bread and caskets of wine. Apparently, 'serve yourself' wasn't a common term in this house but they did just fine. Sitting with them there was some dark-haired man named Evelyn – seriously – as well as Edith, a blonde woman with a pale, well-defined face. She looked nothing like her sister or her mother but quite resembled her father. She wasn't exactly the picture of beauty Sybil was, either, but still a model he was told.

"Evelyn," he started when the dfs adverts began, "Sybil tells me you're engaged. Would I know the lucky lady?" Well, he might. And, yes, Sybil had told him – very quickly as they entered when she noticed he was in the room and stopped Tom for a moment. He was trying to make conversation, and you couldn't scold him for doing his best.

"I don't think you would, she's foreign." Fair enough.

"Ah, well, shame you couldn't bring her then." For some reason, he felt like the man didn't want to interact as the had grown bitter and cold.

"Yes, she sends her apologies. India is quite her thing now. Just makes me wonder if she'll throw me over for some poor man she rescues from the slums. Speaking of which, they stink worse than you, Tom." Was that meant to be a light joke or a downright insult? Edith, stood at the buffet table loading lasagne and mini sausage rolls onto her plate, certainly laughed but Sybil now pulled a grim expression (though still liked nicer than the cow feasting for England behind him); she wasn't pleased.

"Come on, Tom, we can watch the rest in my room." She practically dragged him off the sofa as he stabbed the offending man with his well-practiced 'look that could kill'. Evelyn gave him evils back. Tom then realised that it probably wasn't his fault – he must have deep rooted parent problems based on his unfortunate naming. Doesn't he realise that you can change your name? Edith snickered and gave a knowing glance at Evelyn. Tom was sure the discriminant stuttered something like 'we all know what that means' but he hadn't the energy to wallop him one.

Was she really taking him to her old room? Clearly as she released his hand – now with nail marks firmly following the line of his forefinger down to his thumb – and turned to present her bedroom. Well, her bedroom door. "This is my room." She said, smiling. She needn't have announced it, though as Tom just stood there, allowing her to open the door and then followed her inside. He sat cross-legged on the foot of her bed as she skipped over and switched the flat-screen on. She plonked down next to him, almost the same but with her near leg trailing, bouncing gently on the cover sheet that trailed to the floor. "Well, it's never really been my room, but it's mine whenever I come stay. There's no reason to change anything now so I really doubt anyone will bother with us being here. Now, do you really want to watch the match or will you give me the time to erase the image of muddied savages cursing in Gaelic from behind my eyelids. I swear, that will haunt me forever." He just smiled, staring at her.

"Whatever you want." Seriously? He was a fool.

"Okay, Gok's 'How to Look Good Naked' it is, then." She giggled at his face. Thankfully he'd stopped drooling but now he was gaping in horror. "My treat. Pretty women modelling nude." How was that a treat?

"It's the Trafford Centre thing all over again. Something a little more traditional, please. If not the rugby then…" he couldn't finish his sentence because something was obstructing his lips – hers. It lasted less than a second but it felt like longer. The peach lingered on and he licked his lips, turning into a tomato, then glanced up. She wasn't laughing at him. "Actually, the naked thing sounds alright." He spoke softly, definitely to her, not releasing her eyed from his strong stare the whole time. It had sounded a whole lot more romantic in his head.

"Tom, it's 2pm." She reprimanded him, but he didn't appear to have blown it; he could save this.

"Then let's talk."

"About what?"

"I dunno, to get to know each other. What was your life like when you were little?"

"Alright I guess, we had a nanny but we weren't exactly angels so as Mary and Edith got older dad called that Jo Frost. I mean, honestly. Just because they bickered and I had my own ideas."

"You are an angel. Not the angel Gabriel, like, but that's where the differences stop." That didn't sound too cheesy, did it. She laughed even if it was and clambered onto his lap.

"So that's a tackle?" he turned to the TV.

"Yep."


	5. Love Story

**Was going to upload this earlier, but then I decided to write a St Valentine's Day piece after the epilogue (that should really have been uploaded yesterday, too) and so I didn't exactly have time. As with the others chapters, please inform me of mistakes, review nicely and/or with constructive criticism, oh, you can still guess what I don't own (like DCs, unfortunately).**

**-pureclass**

It was nearly midnight when the 'party' stopped. It had clearly been a while since the whole family had gathered and, once the whole 'The Heir has died without a Will' problem was fixed, a little get-together was held. Really just because of the reunion but also for some relief over inheritance matters, it was really just what they'd been doing before, but with more beer. Sort of like New Year's '08 at his Cousin Shaun's, Tom thought. There had been a marquee almost erected outside, as there was no convenient conservatory for the après-ski celebrations. They weren't so traditional, either, that they would use a drawing room where the women would adjourn to first but it was a bit impossible with the recent blizzard.

"I'm sorry," Robert announced when everyone was suitably smashed, "Looks like you'll have to stay the night, Tom." At least he didn't have anywhere to be until Thursday – he'd come up early to be the typical tourist and go sightseeing, but he'd done that already. Then the housekeeper came up, seemingly knowledgeable that the poor bloke would be staying and whispered to Mr Crawley. "Thank you, Mrs Hughes." Was all he said in reply before turning back to Tom, "Again, my apologies, but there are no other guest rooms made up – we had not foreseen your staying – but I am not so unreasonable as to refuse you stay in Sybil's room." He seemed quite chuffed and almost guffawed, was that the right word? Yes, there seemed to be an in-joke here. "In fact, I'd say the bed in there is large enough for three, if not more." _Hilarious._ But this man was generous and kind, decent and maybe humble, or modest, to say he almost owned the world; so Tom wasn't going to be sarky - or snarky - in front him when he offers him lodgings. To put it lightly, he was surprised that he wasn't made to sleep in the servants' rooms. Or the dungeon, if it had one.

He'd been sure he was the only one eating his prize lasagne with his fork held like a digger – Sybil's eldest sister, Mary, made using cutlery look so elegant. She didn't appear all too pleased with the delicacy but at least had the decency not to mention it to its chef. He almost swore that she held her pinkie finger out, too. Yet Sybil mentioned, hanging over him trashed on the way back to her bedroom, that he'd been the perfect gentleman, much more decent than half the millionaires that had been invited previously. Something slurred about how she thought he'd have great table manners from the train journeys and stuff became incoherent as they nearly fell into her room, and began giggling.

"You know," she said, strained voice comprehensible again, "You are the best guy I've ever met, Tom. Like the kindest, sweetest, man; all the ones I usually meet are stuck-up and superficial, with egos that barely allow them through that 'bloody massive' door." She was sat on the floor when she paraphrased him and lent forward to where he was half-led, half-sat up straight on the floor between her and the door, so close that her breath (it smelt strongly of wine) tickled the almost non-existent hairs that covered his face and drunkenly simpered, slightly hysterical, "I'm gunna get changed now." She giggled, was this usually funny when women were drunk? Not from his experience, but socialites seemed a whole different breed. Some of her family were posh, yes, but she was entirely – amazing. No, that wouldn't do, he'd have to make up a word to describe the staggeringly unique young woman who he now turned away from. She pulled her top over her head and grabbed Tom round the waist from behind and giggled again. "You don't have to turn away. I thought you'd be getting changed, too." She began to unzip his pants, standing behind him, and then flung them both backwards onto her bed.

So that was how he'd ended up where he was now, having just rolled over and kissed her neck. "You're drunk." He muttered, face in the crook of her neck. She was again giggling, biting on her bottom lip in anticipation as she was in, well, just her underwear. He kissed her again, where her collarbone jutted out beneath her perfect olive skin. "You'll regret this." He uttered, but it was too tempting. He realised from the tan lines that her skin was really quite ivory – much unlike his natural tan, and continued his line of kisses down, then up to her lips, mumbling retorts of how she really didn't want to do this between the smothering. He hadn't noticed she'd been fiddling with his pants all the while until she shuffled the nearly-chinos down his legs and chucked them across the room. He thinks they hit, and then slid down, the door. Deep in the kiss, he only removed his hands from either side of her to allow for his shirt to be pulled off, (Had his cardigan been discarded downstairs, too? He remembered unbuttoning it to dance; it was on a pouffe or chaise thing somewhere.) and thrown in the approximate direction of his jeans. Both items were grey, but the shirt was more navy and the jeans were charcoal, almost black. His cardigan was a mid-tone grey, about central on the greyscale spectrum.

He was only thinking about the shade of his clothing – his socks had Wallace and Gromit on, his loafers were a complimentary chestnut-caramel colour – because he was in his boxers, laid on his back, with an equally naked girl crouched above him. He wasn't doing anything but relishing in the groans that occasionally escaped her. Then she seemed to come round. The first thing she had had to drink, besides that wine at the rugby, was Taittinger. She didn't appear to be drunk anymore.

"Tom?" she tucked a wisp of her hair behind her ear, balancing on just one hand above him.

"We haven't…" she kissed him. "Do you…" her lips hit his again, "I don't suppose…" she began attempting to unfasten her bra. He helped, now understanding that she was sober enough and wanted to do this – he hoped. Drat! Nope, that wouldn't do but, oh.

Morning came a bit quickly. Tom groaned as he rolled over in an unfamiliar room. He remembered last night well but he hit the floor when he did so, he usually slept on the other side. Sybil heard the thump and let a feeble 'eep' escape her mouth.

"Honestly," criticised Tom, jokingly aggravated as she dragged him up, tangled in the duvet, "If that's the best you can do, I fear for your life if and when a murderer drags you down an alleyway at midnight. He flopped, face-down, back onto the messy bed, the ruffled sheets a second later being dragged from the near end until he fell off again and joined her where she quickly sat down on the floor.

"How spirited." She teased, and kissed him again.

"We really shouldn't." but they started, and were haltered when a cleaner or maid or whatever walked in on them, making love on the opposite side of the bed; clothes, bedding, cushions and dignity strewn across the room. They'd barely registered her presence before she shut the door, almost immediately, and left. They continued.

"There'll be some gossip today." She began, letting him kiss her face.

"So long as it's one of those 'doesn't leave the room' or 'house confidentiality' things I'm not all too bothered. Anyway, I'm supposed to be your kind-hearted boyfriend."

"I thought I'd just dreamt admitting that to you. But I'm glad I did. It's true, though there are really no words to describe you."

"Ditto." He gasped, pushing her down from the sitting position and rolling around.

"So this whole pretending to be my mate of choice," she began, then gathered her breath and continued after another kiss, "It's not really working for me."

"Mate of choice? Do you take biology or something?"

"I want to be a Doctor, so naturally you've got to love the subject." It was sarcastic but Tom commented honestly,

"Not as much as I love you."

"I love you too."

"Where is Sybil this morning," enquired Robert at breakfast, "and that man of hers?" The women at the table giggled. "What is so funny?"

"Please, papa," Mary answered, "Even without Anna having told us all it'd be more than obvious. She found them on the floor. You know." It was a sensitive subject, and certainly not one the twenty-something really wanted to discuss with her middle-aged dad.

"Of course." He said, as if it were as normal as the sun rising now that he knew, and poured more milk into his coffee. "Do you think he will be staying long?"

"What?" Edith nearly spat her mocha out, "He didn't look all too pleased about coming in the first place. Very nervy, I doubt meeting his girlfriend's parents at their giant country house is entirely his cup of tea. It was you that insisted on him staying the night, as well."

"I'm quite fond of him. There's something different about him. Of course I've searched him. He has two-hundred-and-three Facebook friends, and works for Miliband and, from what I've gathered, doesn't seem like he's going to try to take advantage of any of us."

"I guess, but I doubt he'll want to stay. I think we've scared him off for good." Mary smiled victoriously, no-one had anything to say to that, and took a sip of her morning red. Then granny walked in. The Dowager had strong views on everything, and so had missed last night's do.

"Oh, my, wherever is Sybil?" she asked, taking her seat at the far head of the table. Some people still followed traditions. Everyone laughed, and the older woman took the hint. "Is he a nice fellow? Not like the last one I hope?"

"Mother!" Robert demanded. She had an idea of what they were probably up to, and she asks if he's anything like that gold-digger! In her words, or word, - disgraceful!

Shoving black DC's on he wonders why Sybil had offered to, at about noon, run out and fetch his duffel bag from his truck so he could get changed into more comfortable clothes. Ones that hadn't spent the best part of the day screwed up on her bedroom floor. Did she really love him, as much as he found himself loving her? He thinks he's fallen in love with her. No, knows, he _knows_ he's fallen in love with her. But last night – and this morning – were foolish. And he was starving. Now in a change of clothes; dark red, almost as if blood stained, fashion cotton T-shirt, cream actual chinos that had a button sewn on, they were like jogging bottoms in that you didn't zip them up, and the DCs he never bothered lacing up, having fastened them so they were just tight enough to stay on when running and be comfortable but just loose enough to slip on and off easily, hastily shuffled onto size 10 feet already smothered in tennis socks. Plain black with a grey stripe half a centimetre from the top, but pushed down so they crumpled at his ankles, just above his shoes.

Sybil had changed into a little purple dress. Not a dark purple that would match his top but a bright, light purple. Almost Lavender. And patterned, too; a darker purple velvet pattern of stems with the blooming fleur head atop, twining and meandering from across the bottom of the piece to the petals hanging at the left side, from his perspective, and with a silken trim at the elbow-length sleeves, a bit of stringy purple ribbon outlining some of the detail and a purple mesh-y laced neckline. It was completely purple, four or five shades of the pretty colouring matching, well, her. Why hadn't she worn that now that he wanted to strip it off her? He seemed to demonstrate this lust as she walked up to him and he ruffled some of the light material at her hips, gathering at her waist and him clinging hard, smelling her. Her hair smelt of lavender, he realised, and smiled against the fading black of her craven curls. A very dark brown that was also light, like ancient treated wood. "Be careful," he warned, "Or someone might mistake you for a foxglove." She kissed his ear, "And they are oh, so, beautiful." He finished.

"Be careful," she replied, "Or we might happen again." The mood dropped. He loosened his grip but did not release her, "And you sound hungry."

"Only for you, my dear." His hands tightened around her again and moved upwards, searching. Then his stomach grumbled.

"I think we have bacon downstairs." She giggled. So much for _that_ ill-thought out plan, Tommy boy. Next time he promised himself that his attempts at seduction would be pre-meditated and before he noticed her swaying her hips melodically, looking beautiful. Too bad that was pretty much all he registered when she moved. Dragging him out by the wrist, his hair still mussed, she had left herself vulnerable. He quickened so they were close and, with his free wrist, squeezed her buttocks. That should be informative enough. There was her cute squeal again. She spun round and stared at him, her eyes boring into his and pleading, more with herself than with him, not to turn and take him back into her room, back into her bed. "We have to reappear at some point or there will definitely be talk." He kissed her. It lasted long enough for her next eldest sister, Edith, to turn the corner at the end of the hall and walk halfway down then clutch her sister's shoulder and drag her away.

If she was intending to separate the couple, it failed. He simply went with her, themselves perfectly entwined, his arms locked around her middle and hers near strangling at his neck. They chests were touching, one slide and their hips would grind together. Though they did break apart and gasp, then looked into each other and giggled. They were like naughty children who had been discovered, purely out for the adrenaline rush of being found. It wasn't the intention but it wasn't not an option. Edith glared at him over Sybil's shoulder;

"Come along for afternoon tea before you impregnate my little sister, moron. I fear should I leave the pair of you together a second more you'll be sprawled across the floor again attempting to prove that I could be mistaken when I said 'pair'."

He glared back, "How long have you been thinking up that, just waiting to catch us?"

"Since about eight or half past. I have the room next door. You weren't exactly quiet."

Sybil giggled; he supposed that this was new to her and therefore more exciting. She hadn't been a virgin, had she? He hadn't just gone and taken her – twice? Oh, but he had. A pained look came across his face but was mistaken by both women.

"It's not that disappointing. I know people who that would've just slipped off their tongue. Sadly, that's not me, but I can at least ponder how best to put you down. You are her boyfriend, we're automatically enemies." She smiled at him. "Just be thankful that it wasn't Mary or granny who ran into you … two." What might have succeeded 'you' was obvious. Edith just gave them a look which said 'hurry up, but I do care' then skipped away. Out of sight and out of hearing proximity, Sybil and Tom embraced. It was a warm, comforting hug.

He groaned as she, after a minute or so in his arms, trapped his ear between her teeth. Then he playfully demanded, "Marry me."

She smiled, a little surprised but knew not to take it seriously. He lips brushed his cheek, her head moving down so she could lean her forehead against his. "Are you asking?" it was illustrious, _she_ was asking for something he thought, then laughed to himself in his head. If only.

"No," he secured her eyes, speaking truthfully, "If I was asking," he took her hand from behind him and kissed the back of it, bottom lip spilling onto her knuckles, "I'd do it properly." He kept hold of her hand and got down on one knee, "Like this." He looked back up into her eyes again, then cheekily smiled and stood up, intertwining their fingers. "Just, not right now. You were right, love, I'm starving." He kissed her behind her ear, taking in her hair, and smiled genuinely. When? It was an unspoken question, with an unspoken answer. It was cliché but he would have said it. How long is a piece of string?

He lapped at the bacon like a starved wolf. She giggled at what she joked was 'cannibalism' and, because only her sisters, Matthew and Evelyn were there, he playfully re-enacted his lavish hungry barbarianism on her cheek, playfully nibbling at her bottom lip then letting her snog him and then practically fall onto him, the pair of them nearly falling off his chair. His father walked in and so everyone else began laughing. Robert acknowledged the atmosphere in the room but couldn't know why the younger men and women, scattered seemingly randomly around the carefully manufactured solid oak masterpiece, were so giddy until he noticed, about a third of the way down the left side of the long dining table, the resident couple perched on one chair. It was enough knowing that his youngest daughter was romantically attached; it was another founding himself dumbfounded unable to peel his eyed off the sight of her what – initiating with this man. At his grand dinner table. He felt himself turn red. "Tom?" his voice was weak. He was losing his touch. Tom looked up but Sybil, still leant against his chest with both hands, applied full force and knocked them backwards. Appropriately embarrassed he hauled her up then returned the chair and muttered that he should go then walked past her father, straightening his tee.

It smelt strongly of nothing, it was just cold. A very grey, very wrong afternoon. He hadn't gathered anything, so was escaping in his loungewear when he heard his name being called in the most melodic chime he had ever had the privilege to hear. It was like birdsong, with a cute and fitting catch, and belonged to his beloved. "Tom! Wait!" she caught up as he had turned and stopped. His cardigan was draped over her arm. It was the same appalling grey as the day and he refused to put it on – believe it or not, he still held claim to some pride and dignity and it just didn't go with what he was wearing. He had a coat, a plain black North Face jacket with a fleece, and wished that he was snuggled in that garment. No, he wished he had hold of it, so that he could wrap her in it and hold her close; she, too, was unguarded from the wintry chill. As it was he took her in his arms and whispered in her ear;

"If you love me, run away with me. We can't stay here." Then stepped back to observe her reaction.

"I… don't know what to say."

"Say yes. It all comes down to whether you love me. That's all, that's it; the rest is detail." She swallowed hard, fiercely contemplating her next words so much so she thought she might set the frozen lawn alight. Instead, she was interrupted by her eldest sister piping up from in front the main doors, holding one open and shivering atop the large slab of a worn, leading step.

"You two, though it may be uncustomary, come back in here! You'll catch your death of cold otherwise!" Yes, Mary was smart, he thought. Releasing Sybil finally, he let one hand trail down her arm and release at her thumb tip as he glanced at her loving, intensely, then turned as he continued back to her family abode. She waited until he had walked past her sister, who gave the door a little push to allow him entrance then caught it again. She looked away - boy was this like one of those soppy period films - then down to her gloved hands. His man-cardigan was still on her now-foreign arm, his touch lingering on the other. Tracing the motion and the track it left she then moved the hand that had followed to her lips; it wasn't his taste. She wanted to find him, she wanted him. She ran back inside, nearly knocking Mary senseless.

"Tom!" he was plodding remorsefully to their bedroom. _Their_ bedroom, their bed. He turned, looking up from his phone.

"That was my boss. I was meant to be doing a bit of study for writing a political report, starting Thursday. He asks if I could be there tomorrow. I guess I'll see you."

Before he had chance to add anything more, though it didn't seem likely, she jumped at him, hugging him so tightly it hurt. "Sybil, dear, I have a heart condition. Please, don't crush the poor thing before it has chance to kick out!" she almost smiled, but was sobbing into his shoulder.

"Tom, please don't leave me."

"What! But you? Sybil?" she had peeked away from the now darkened cotton to look innocently into his face.

"If you must go, please take me with you at least. Please, Tom, please!" her begging wasn't exactly fitting, and he wanted to talk with her rationally.

"Come on, let's calm you down. You look hysterical."

He sat her on their bed, and fetched a glass of water. "Let's be sensible. Firstly, were you a virgin when I met you?" Not exactly appropriate but at least it would return her, plus he really couldn't get the question from his mind.

"Yes. And, oh, Tom, I'm so glad it was you. I don't ever want anyone else but you." Maybe not.

"Okay. Second, do really want to come with me? You said you want to be a Doctor, how will you continue your education?"

"I study in Cambridge, I travel from everywhere." Obviously.

"Well, pity, because I'm starting a tutoring gig there next month and I think we'd be frowned upon." Lousy excuse, but she shouldn't rush into things.

"As much as my family do? I highly doubt it's possible." Very true, but he would dissuade her and if she still wanted to go with him in, say, the summer, he would be more than happy to oblige.

"But it would be in _both_ our professional lives, you know what they say – 'don't mix business with pleasure'." Pointless.

"It hardly counts, you wouldn't be teaching me and we'd've been together longer than your position, anyway." She was strong. He now realised that she knew she wanted this and would get it.

"Then lastly, Sybil Crawley, will you marry me? I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness. Even if they don't accept us right now, your family will come round, and when they do I will welcome them with open arms. And this time, yes, I am asking."

"Yes." One word. One word and his future was sealed, forever. Strangely, unlike other times he'd imagined his married future, forever didn't appear as daunting. He hugged her and they stayed like that for a moment until she held him back then, very teasingly, said "Pleasure?"

It was Mary that found them, then. They hadn't been seen in a while and it was nearly dinner; Robert at least wanted the man to change, if not dress properly for the occasion.

"Dear, do you two ever stop?" it was teasing, and Sybil felt inclined to reply.

"Erm, no." could she really not think of anything better? She should lie. "Because we want a baby." Well that was a lie. Thankfully, Tom had practically turned to stone at being found out – again that his features betrayed nothing. Would this lot ever leave his poor heart alone? He was breathing heavily but she bought it. "Yeh," Sybil continued, "You know how dad's been about grandkids and stuff." Mary faintly mouthed an exasperated 'wow' then quantified it with an okay, glaring at him evilly, before leaving them to their peace. He felt like his chest would explode. "Tom, are you alright?"

"Is it possible for your heart to physically break and shatter and crumple, and possibly become an inferno, tireless to break free from your ribs and destroy you in the most painful way possible? Because that's how I feel right now. Like my heart's going to kill me." She looked scared. "But also as if a great heaping load of morphine has been injected to cease the pain, with a side effect of absolute bliss." He leant over and kissed her, redeeming himself. "Because the ends justifies the means, the pain of my heart murmuring into overdrive only to recover me to you is totally worth it." He then paused and added, as she had become a little confused, too, "Because you said 'yes'."

"If you really have to go, we should probably be off after dinner. Let me pack?"

"Of course. By the way, do you want to go to my flat in London or apartment in Dublin?" that was cheeky, "Though, because I have work up here for the moment, I'll be in a hotel. 'The Swan Inn' I think they paid for. Prepared for such downgrade accommodation?" She chucked his bag at him,

"Get packed, and get dressed." She smiled sweetly, "My father will kill you." She joked, though he expected nothing less. He would be taking the very pretty, very famous and very spectacle youngest daughter of his from him. No man ever liked that day; moreover, he expected, when they were like Sybil. He should be prepared to hang. Robert Crawley was probably so influential that he could have Tom thrown in the Tower and beheaded should he so wish. To be honest, they were practically the Royal Family – they were involved with them enough, anyway. Dinner with her father? Dinner with Her Majesty. Both seemed as appealing as each other to Tom, but he obediently shimmied into a proper shirt and his only blazer (there was supposed to be a presentation, too), but had only some slouch jeans, grey baggy jogging bottoms and flared pants. The flares would have to do, along with some plain, odd-coloured but supposedly dark green, socks and the loafers he'd worn the day her arrived.

Holding the blazer open like a model and spinning round in his mismatched outfit, he let her giggle. This would have to be presentable; he would have to throw away his high regard for trends and fashion. He released the grey almost-suit jacket and pretending to lick his hand then slid it over his hair. "Ain't I slick, sweet thang?" he attempted an American accent, it's a shame that 'thang' sounded more like 'thong' in his pitiful not-deceit. She just laughed, then fixed his hair and pretended to sort his offending clothing.

"Were you planning on turning up like that for the presentation? Or did you forward a decently cobbled-together suit on?"

"Nice." He enunciated slowly, "No, I might have done, but you really only get to see above here," he gestured, slicing himself in half with one brilliantly-executed knife hand just above his abdomen, "so it wouldn't really matter." With one last shrug of his jacket before she closed it with the two buttons, she kissed the end of his nose.

"Coming, fiancé?" that sounded nice, and he was in dreamland as she escorted him from the room. There were four bags on the floor, his lousy duffel and two suitcases of hers ('Enough until I move in' she had hesitantly half-asked.), as well as the backpack she had flopped onto his opposite seat the day they met. The door closed, the couple would be back.


	6. Epilogue, The Final Countdown

**Completely insignificant but totally amazing and seriously sweet epilogue! (For the main part as there will be more…) Come on, I really needed to include Violet!**

Dinner went well. Well enough, anyway. The cases had been delivered to his hire car by someone who worked at the manor and Tom was glad to be leaving, to put it lightly. Eternally thankful for the early escape, with his now betrothed, would be better.

They walked apart, close but not touching, away from the house to where he'd parked the pick-up a few days ago. Then, when the sensation that someone might turn from their relatively mundane conversation to watch them leave suddenly leaked into her brain, she grabbed his arm from behind and placed it around her own waist, letting her hand linger only a second longer than necessary but the motion symbolised so much. He smiled and looked down into the eyes that were already searching his, "That is one seriously elaborate fib."

"Who says it is?"

Her grandmother, Violet Crawley, would always have the last word. She turned to just miss this romantic moment but noted aloud, "What on Earth is the boy wearing? And just when I thought we'd finally found one with a good sense of style!"


	7. Valentine's Day 2012, My Girl

_**Nice little Valentine's Day special. Should have honestly uploaded yesterday, but I think it's still February 14**__**th**__** somewhere. Yes, the story will continue after the epilogue but it will really only be drabble as that was the proper finish to the proper story bit.**_

**Valentine's Day**

"Tom!"

They were in London. Their first Valentine's Day together. Sybil had finally recovered from the death of Whitney Houston - the admiration celebrities reserved for each other was phenomenal; plus, she had to be continuously weeping in remorse and grievance for the persistent paparazzi, and random street photographers.

Not exactly the Grammy's, they were in America, but Sybil had received an invitation to the BAFTA's. Tom hadn't. She had ended up sitting between a man he had never heard of, Jean something-or-other who is an uprising star from France, and that Arlene Phillips who supposedly made a right prat of herself. Tom watched it all on TV, with popcorn, but poised to switch to DAVE or GOLD in a heartbeat. Stephen Fry was a saint, though, and livened it up. Besides that, she was the only reason he was watching. He didn't usually succumb to fan boy-ism but found himself routing for those from his favourite films and TV shows. 'The Iron Lady' he had gone to watch with Sybil – she had a thing for influential women and politics, like him, and so he was fully behind Meryl Streep as Best Actress (of the decade) he ruefully added as he nearly chucked the microwaved popcorn in the air. Then that silent actor who appeared to have been annoying his fiancée all night bagged Best Actor. Don't get him wrong, he's seen 'The Artist' – just had no respect for a silent chuckle brother who was, A, foreign (the 'B' in BAFTA stands for British, right?) and, B, was annoying the woman he loved from, C, egotistically trying to woo her. It almost seemed too bad that no-one knew she was taken, especially from the fact that once they'd met Tom no man would look at her ever again.

Finally, at the end of the night and having to turn off the show early, Tom picked her up in some posh limo with tinted windows. She hopped in the back, called at the chauffeur before realising it was him, then hopped past the mini-fridge and flat screen to land practically on top of him when he tipped his hat and grinned in the rear-view mirror and, like she had just now, squeaked his name.

He gets up, dragging himself out of the minimalist plain steel bed with all-white sheets and covers, and his subconscious lulls him to follow the sweet scent of maple syrup and golden honey. Both were spread on some homemade pancakes she was currently tucking into. Catching sight of him, she drops the cutlery and comes up behind, hugging his neck and kissing his cheek before putting her hands over his eyes. He groaned. "Follow me." She was excited, and led him into the adjoining open living area. Sybil had to walk on her tiptoes behind him, then down the step and removed her hands. The curtains were still shut and, as he was donned in just boxers, she didn't draw them. There was a neatly wrapped box on the glass table between the two facing sofas. He sat down on the left one and picked the box up then put it down on his lap, patting the cushion on his right for her to sit down. She sat and lifted the box off his lap. She was dressed in some baggy pajama bottoms and a fitted yellow t-shirt, her hair was brushed and he kissed the top of her head.

"Can I wait 'till after breakfast to open it."

"A-huh." she sounded a bit dejected but stood and cheerily skipped back to the table. "Do you want syrup?"

"Honey, please." He then raced back to their room. Returning, he was sat in a chair, a plate pushed along the table to settle in front of him and an expectant face from Sybil, who took her place opposite. Her perfectly manicured nails drummed against the polished wood. He began to devour the pancakes as he had the bacon that day. Something was different, though, and he longed for her to tell him whatever it was, the elephant in the room that was causing all this unnecessary tension. He put his knife and fork down, and waited.

"I think I might be pregnant." Drat. Yep, it was his fault, no denying that. He swallowed what sort-of remained of his last mouthful. What in the hell should he say?

"Do you want it?"

"Yes." That was a quick exchange.

"Are you happy?"

"Very." This could get annoying.

"Do you want to open my present now?"

"Huh?" He got up, half-finished breakfast going cold, and took her hand. He walked her to the open space between the table and the step then, still holding her hand, got down on one knee.

"I wanted to do this properly, for you." And he took the little white box from his pocket. It was perfectly camouflaged in their simplistic flat. With his free hand, having not let go of hers once yet, he flipped the lid and looked up willingly, nervously, innocently and still confidently into her eyes. "Sybil Crawley, will you do me the honour of marrying me, and be my wife." Surprisingly, he was prepared for if she said 'no' this time. Sadly, he hadn't wagered for if she didn't say a thing. Her free hand rushed to her mouth to prevent a gasp from escaping, and she just nodded. The free hand was her left, and she lowered it again. Tears welling in her eyes and misting the beautiful blue-green, he released her right to slide the ring elegantly onto her ring finger.

It fit perfectly. They could worry about everything else in just a minute, but for now, nothing should break their very special moment together.


	8. St Paddy's Day Chal, Daydream Believer

**Ok, this should have been up ages ago. Sorry 'bout that.**

**-pureclass**

March 17th 2012, St Patrick's Day

"Hurry up!" Tom yelled, anxiously awaiting the start of the match from his perch on the very edge of the sofa. He had a six pack of Guinness in front of him and was dressed in his Ireland rugby jersey, ready for the match.

She had just walked in with a steaming cup of tea when kick-off was called and Tom opened his first bottle.

"Beer?" she asked, eyeing the now half-emptied bottle in his hand questioningly before looking back up at his face.

"Yes. It's Saint Paddy's day! Tea?" he asked in response, staring down the brew held in both her hands before she sat down next to him and put it on the coffee table.

"Well," she began, systematically, "You're drinking Guinness for Ireland so I might as well drink tea for England. Unless you're lying and it isn't 'our nations in combat'!" she chuckled, paraphrasing him and trying to imitate his accent – with pitiful results.

"Ah, makes sense." He smiled raising his glass and she her cup before they clinked glasses.

"Cheers!"

"Sláinte!"

"Eh?"

"Gaelic, Sybil. Honestly!" Tom mused, and kissed the top of her head.

March 18th 2012, Mothering Sunday

After he had proposed, they spoke no more of what would no doubt become an actual elephant in the room, compared to some of the rooms they entered. Pregnant. Sybil hadn't taken any tests but knew what she was missing; and what she was gaining. And what she might lose. She was training to become a doctor, but what sensible student gets pregnant half-way through their final year?

So, as it was Mother's Day (what a weekend he inwardly, masochistically, grinned in that boyish way of his), he bought her, of all things, a pregnancy test.

She swatted him one, but he just finished off another pint.

"Don't you prefer it draught?" she asked, still holding the little cuboid in front of her.

"Yes," he admitted, "but I had to get some in for our flop and they were buy one get one free. Well, in packs of six."

"So you got four crates?"

"Yes. I need to be out when that comes through." He nodded at the box.

"Mm," she mused, but did not say anything.

"Tonight, then. But I can't promise anything good on TV." She giggled and, like before, they settled into a routine of being blissfully ignorant.

"Morning!" Tom practically yelled. It was just gone midnight of the 19th and he had finished off all the alcohol in the flat in preparation for whatever the test may bring. She wasn't happy, but didn't mind his endless kisses, the way he showered her with affection or the snogging when she hesitantly sipped what remained of the champagne.


End file.
